I thought it was a pretty nifty idea, really. I had been selling my body to “whoever”—male or female, as long as they could turn me on or pay me well—for a couple of years already just to get to where I’d gotten. And then when I managed to get into a prestigious university in a rich, relatively small town known for its part-time eccentric millionaire residents, I could see that I would need a lot more money to maintain my new lifestyle than a couple of hours on my back or lifting a skirt a week was going to support.

So, it was quite fortuitous that I hooked up with Slick just a couple of days after I’d arrived in town. Slick wasn’t his real name—I’m sure actually that the name he gave me wasn’t his real name either—but it was the name I gave him because he was such a cocky, manicured guy all tricked out in shiny, slick duds. When he’d shown interest in me at the first gay club I’d found, I’d figured he was one of the rich eccentric guys I’d been told about and that he’d be a fast twenty bucks. When we went out to his car, and I saw what he was driving—a flashy Jaguar—I upped my expectations to fifty bucks. It turned out to be a hundred bucks, but it was a hard-earned hundred bucks. He barely gave me time to have my pants off and he had me sitting in his lap and he was porking me deep and hard and fast. He had me about all the ways you can do it in the backseat of a car. And all the time he was testing me. I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t an eccentric millionaire, but I could be quite sure he was a pimp.

“Nice job, blondie,” he said to me after he’d finally come and I could take my feet down from the side pillar of the car and the passenger backrest where I’d dug them in for leverage during his last assault. “Do you only do guys?”

“Whatever,” I answered.

“How would you like to work for me? There’s big bucks in it.”

That’s when I found out that this rich town had a very interesting seam running below its surface. He called the service the White Bandana Club. It was quite the clever twist on a call service. Rich guys and gals could join the club for an exorbitant fee. The “talent,” which is where I fit in after I heard how well it paid, got a set and satisfying monthly stipend and any tips they collected. All we had to do was be out in public a certain number of hours a day with a white bandana worn conspicuously around our necks, as a head scarf, or hanging off a belt loop. If someone came up to us and asked us to give them the white bandana, we were to follow them wherever they wanted to go and have whatever sex they wanted to have that didn’t register as torture.

No questions, no names, no private deals, although we could certainly tell them where they could find us again if they wanted seconds. Afterward they were supposed to give us the white bandana back and return us to where they found us. If we went for a week without a request for the white bandana, we still got paid—we just didn’t get any tips.

The money was very good and this was even a better setup than I had anticipated I could get, so I said yes readily. Slick sealed the deal by giving me a white bandana and an envelope stuffed with cash—and then by asking me to give the bandana back to him and taking me to a posh apartment and fucking my brains out again on silk sheets. Just to be sure, he brought in one of the females he was playing, a red-haired, trim honey, whose only irritating habit was that she popped gum the whole time, and he watched me fuck her.

Afterward he said, “You’ll do nicely,” so I guess I passed that test. The red head popped her gum at me and gave me a grin when she’d dressed and was leaving, so I guess I passed with her as well. I was bi and, with me, sex was sex was sex—any port in a storm—but I have to admit I liked being done by a guy the best.

Although I had several white bandana encounters my first week in which all a stranger needed to do to get submissive sex from me was to ask for my bandana, none were as strange as the one I had while I was on my way to play tennis on an afternoon I didn’t have classes. I was strolling along, racket case under my arm, when a big black limousine, with smoked windows rolled up beside me, the driver’s window rolled down, and a big black bullet-headed chauffeur pointed out my white bandana to me and told me to follow his car into the far end of an almost-deserted parking lot. I followed him. The car had pulled up by an unusually high curb, and when I got there and walked around to stand on the curb where the limo was between me and the busy street off a ways in the distance, the rear window of the car came down, and a voice issued from the dark depths of the rear seat.

“Lean in just here and put your hands on the roof of the car. Keep your eyes on the street over there.” I did so. The curb was high enough that my pelvis was at the level of the window. I felt my tennis shorts and jock strap being pulled to below my butt cheeks. One thin hand went around to a butt cheek and the other one went up under my tennis shirt and rested on my belly. My cock was being worked by a mouth, and rather expertly worked, I might add. There I was, trying to look nonchalantly over the roof of the car, while pedestrians passed by in the near distance, looking at me, full of curiosity about the nifty limo over here, while I was getting a very interesting and expert blow job and ball wash and nibble. When I had come, which was efficiently swallowed, and had been licked clean, my shorts and jock were snapped back into place—with a small wad of crisp greenbacks tucked under the elastic of the jock’s band. I was told to back off from the limo, the back window rolled back up, and limo moved majestically across the parking lot and back into traffic.

Was it a man or a woman, I wondered. Not being sure shored up my credo that sex was sex was sex. Yeah, this was going to be all right, I thought to myself as I whistled my way on toward the tennis courts.

There were other peculiar white bandana encounters, of course, and some were a lot more involved than that limousine blow job. One day not long after my limo encounter I was accosted by a woman who knew both my name and to use the white bandana to get me into her car; and a very nice car too, a big white Bentley. The woman looked nice and rich too. She was on the edge of being a matron, but money had kept her on the well-maintained side. She was in great shape and would be very attractive in candlelight. And I certainly was ready for a change of pace.

It took us more than five minutes just to drive from the road up to her big house on a hill. As we walked up to the door, it opened and it all came together for me. Standing in the door, welcoming us in, was one of my university’s prize wrestlers, Samir, who we called Sam; I was trying to make the freshman wrestling team and I’d already been pinned several times by Sam for my efforts.

A tall, rangy son of the Levant, Sam was a cream and coffee-colored hottie, with strong legs and a long, lean torso topped with broad shoulders and tremendous biceps and pecs. It appeared that in this world, though, he was Mrs. Rich’s butler. He was wearing a tight tux shirt with big cuffs and cufflinks and a bow tie, topping a pair of silk, skin-hugging black pants that fit every contour of his body from his waist down to his calves and then flared out to hems topping a nice pair of patent-leather pumps. And it obviously was Sam who had gotten me hooked up with his mistress, although my mind was working double time to try to figure out just what form of mistress she was to him. Sam was giving us a big welcoming grin.

Mrs. Rich led me to a guest room, waved at the closet, and told me to strip and put on the items I found in the closet. She assured me that there were several of each item in there and I should be able to find everything in a size that would fit me. After I changed, she said, I should look over on the dressing table for further instructions. She told me where she wanted me to come after I’d changed and left me in the room alone. I stripped down to my briefs before checking the closet out, enjoying the uncertainty of what I’d find behind that door.

When I appeared in Mrs. Rich’s bedroom nearly thirty minutes later, I was wearing a scarlet silky slip, a blonde wig, and a heavy layer of bright red lipstick. Under the slip, I was wearing a black lacy bra and what I’d call black lacy breakaway bikini panties, meaning that they tied at the sides with string and could be easily pulled off from any position. I also was wearing a thin garter belt around my belly, which held up black, fishnet stockings. On my feet were strapped black stiletto heels, which had been a little difficult to walk down the hall in. I must say that this getup somewhat amused me, and I was game to see where this would lead.

I met my double when I entered Mrs. Rich’s bedroom. Mrs. Rich herself was identically attired and was stretched out on a chaise lounge facing her gigantic bed. She looked fine in this light, but I wondered if I perhaps didn’t look a little bit better. She looked me up and down and told me in no uncertain terms that she liked what she saw. Then she asked me to go over and perch at the foot of the bed, and, after I’d done that, she rang a buzzer and Samir appeared. She simply told Samir to come over and sit beside me on the bed and to make love to me, as if I was a woman, until she told him to stop. She pointed out that there was a tube of lubricant on the coverlet beside me, which he could use, but that in all other ways I was to be a woman to him and that I was to consider myself to be a woman to him, a woman who loved him and would deny him nothing.

Hookay.

Samir sat down on the bed beside me and gently turned my face to him. He gave me a gentle kiss, and I opened to him in the way I felt a woman in love would do. He seemed surprised at my response, at my willingness to play this game, and his kiss turned passionate. He put his right arm around me at my hip and bunched up the silk slip in his fist. His left hand went to my belly, which he caressed and then let his hand drift up to my neck and then down my cleavage and to my breasts. I covered his right fist with one of my hands and raised my other hand to his cheek. And I sighed for him as I thought a woman would sigh when he touched my breasts. This seemed to send a little thrill through him, and I wondered if he was begging to forget that I wasn’t really a woman. From across the room, I could see that Mrs. Rich was enjoying this immensely. She also was watching the action intensely, like she was taking mental notes or something.

Samir had bunched up my silk slip on one side to the point that the hem had come up to his hand. He moved the other hand down to my other hip, and we broke our kiss while he pulled the silk slip up and off me. His lips went to the hollow of my neck, and he went into a lingering kiss of my pulsating artery there. His right hand was spread on my lower belly, his little finger just under the waistband of my bikini briefs. His left hand was frantically exploring my breasts above the bra, feeling me and squeezing me. He seemed to be into this exploration even though I didn’t have big breasts. Of course, I didn’t have little breasts either; my pecs were very well defined, and he could certainly feel my taut nipples through the flimsy material of the bra.

He and what I was wearing and what we were doing was making me feel like a woman, and I jutted my chest up into his hands, felt my nibs puffing up, and moaned for him when he was working them.

Thinking that this is what a woman would do, I had taken his hand and moved it under my bra. He flinched in pleasure at this, and I heard Mrs. Rich laugh with pleasure as well. I slowly unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the tail out of his pants. he released his hands while I pulled his shirt off his back, but then he returned them to where they had been, but now his right hand was even farther down on my lower belly. It was interesting that when I pulled his shirt away, his black bow tie and his cuffs remained. Mrs. Rich had decked him out as a Chippendales stud. And he would have fit in that line up just fine; a magnificent chest and biceps and long tapering abs down to a flat belly. His chest was heaving slightly now, as if he was having trouble controlling both his breath and his sexual appetite. He was like a lithe tiger, trying to pace himself, prolonging the kill, even though he was already loaded to pounce. And I could tell he was already loaded by the tenting in his crotch area.